


Roses In Bloom

by KasumiChou, silencedmockingjay



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Character Death, Flowers, Hanahaki Disease, Heavy Angst, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-27 05:02:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12574300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KasumiChou/pseuds/KasumiChou, https://archiveofourown.org/users/silencedmockingjay/pseuds/silencedmockingjay
Summary: It lays in the palm of his hand, mocking him. A beautiful flower petal that seems to gleam in the moonlight, a piece of beauty in absolute stillness.Yuuri shifts a little, sitting on his bed propped up by pillows, feeling his heart shatter to pieces inside him even as he rearranges his expression into a blank one. He’s already known it for a while, but seeing the proof makes it all the more real.He’s always known Viktor Nikiforov will be his death, ever since he’s seen the Russian skater twirling on the ice, panting after coming out of a Biellmann spin, face flushed but smile proud and chest high - despite trying to convince himself otherwise.





	Roses In Bloom

**Author's Note:**

> HUGE SHOUT OUT TO MY PARTNER IN CRIME FOR THIS PIECE OF WORK: [silencedmockingjay](https://silencedfalcon.tumblr.com)
> 
> I also blame whoever gave us free range to write whatever we wanted.
> 
> ~Kasumi
> 
> Haha, what Kas said lol... don't say we didn't warn you. 
> 
> ~Noc

 

“Hanahaki.”

 

The room remains deadly silent, other than the squeak of the chalk moving across the blackboard as the teacher writes the word down.

 

“Better known as Hanahaki disease, it is an illness born from one-sided love. Can anyone tell me what the most common symptom of Hanahaki disease is?”

 

Multiple hands shoot up into the air, the room remaining deadly quiet until the teacher’s finger swings around to point at someone.

 

“Coughing and throwing up flowers petals.”

 

The room suddenly fills with whispers of people always surrounded by flower petals, of people who knew someone with the disease of the graves forever covered in roses that bloomed even in winter.

 

“Silence,” the teacher demands, causing the room to go silent once again. “Yes, the most common symptom of Hanahaki disease is the throwing up and coughing of flowers.”

 

The teacher turns her back to the class, writing what she had said down on the blackboard.

“Many doctors debate the actual medical definition of Hanahaki. You will note that it is often called an infection rather than a disease due to the invasion of flowers in the person’s lungs. Hanahaki is an extremely painful disease. Physically coughing or vomiting flowers can result in tears and cuts in the throat. The flowers grow within the lungs, where it is moist and warm, meaning that the flower will start to take up air space making it harder to breath. There are also people recorded to have died from flowers tearing the throat while being regurgitated, though this only happens with flowers known for spikes or prickles.”

 

“I heard there’s, like, this one town that only ever gets cactus flowers when someone gets Hanahaki disease, so they, like, don’t last long.” A voice whispers somewhere behind Yuuri, followed by a horrified gasp from the student sitting next to him, their heads bent together like they’re sharing a secret.

 

“The flowers that one regurgitates often has something to do with the one they are longing for. For example, the morning glory flower represents unrequited love. If someone with Hanahaki’s disease starts regurgitating morning glory, it is almost guaranteed to die from Hanahaki if they do not seek help.” the teacher continues.

 

The mutters from the class grow louder and louder, increasing in intensity until the teacher has to hush her students to get them to calm down.

 

“Hanahaki has only two cures,” the teacher continues while crossing her hands across her chest. “The first one is an operation. The operation involves cutting a person open to remove the flowers growing in their lungs. But for unknown reasons, if one opts for the surgery, all feelings and memories involving the person that caused Hanahaki disappear.”

 

“Miss? Does that mean they forget?”

 

“Exactly,” the teacher says while turning back to the blackboard, oblivious to the scared glances students are throwing at each other across the classroom.

 

“Forgetting a loved one,” Yuuri mumbles to himself softly while writing down the notes from the black board, “How sad.”

 

“The second cure is often called the harder option, is to try and get the person one is pinning after to reciprocate your love. Statistically, the people who attempt to cure themselves this way often do not make it. Hanahaki is both the most beautiful and most deadly disease in the world, because the flowers bloom while you perish.”

 

“Remember. They flourish while you decay.”

 

Yuuri glances out the window, and wonders exactly how painful it would be to forget his other half.

 

***

 

_‘A commemorative photo?’_

 

The words still echo in his ear, mocking him even after returning back to the small apartment he shares with Phichit in America. He had finally achieved his goal - finally skated on the same ice as Viktor Nikiforov, only to be mistaken as a fan.

 

And now this. It lays in the palm of his hand, mocking him. A beautiful flower petal that seems to gleam in the moonlight, a piece of beauty in absolute stillness.

 

Yuuri shifts a little, sitting on his bed propped up by pillows, feeling his heart shatter to pieces inside him even as he rearranges his expression into a blank one. He’s already known it for a while, but seeing the proof makes it all the more real.

 

He’s always known Viktor Nikiforov will be his death, ever since he’s seen the Russian skater twirling on the ice, panting after coming out of a Biellmann spin, face flushed but smile proud and chest high - despite trying to convince himself otherwise.

 

But there’s no use denying it now. There’s proof, solid proof in front of him, in the shape of the blue rose petal lying innocently on the palm of his hand, illuminated only by the streaks of moonlight filtering through the curtains.

 

It’s honestly surprising, how long the flowers have taken to grow in his lungs. He’d expected it sooner.

 

Lifting the petal up to the single brightest, widest ray of moonlight that’s shining through the cracks of the curtains, he breathes a small, barely-heard sigh. Then, his fingers come down, closing over the single petal and crushing it into pieces, the remnants of a love that couldn’t be gone.

 

But it isn’t gone, not really. Yuuri knows. It will grow and grow and grow, sinking more and more roots into his lungs, anchor itself into place and blossom up his windpipe, reaching his mouth and shredding his throat to pieces.

 

There’s no doubt it’s Viktor. Only one person can enrapture him like this, can kill him without knowing he exists, is as beautiful and deadly as the flowers currently growing inside of him.

 

Viktor Nikiforov will kill him. He is sure of that.

 

Then, the enormity of everything hits him at once, slams into him with the force of a truck, leaving him keeling over and gasping for breath. He’s signed his own death warrant, this time. He will die, soon, if he doesn’t opt for the surgery. But Yuuri already knows with an aching certainty that he will never, ever, opt for it. To remove his love for Viktor would be to cut away his heart, and a huge part of his love for skating.

 

More tears roll down his cheeks as he starts shaking, burrowing his hands under his blankets in a failed attempt to rub some more warmth into them. The blankets do nothing to soothe the cold certainty in his heart, mixed with despair.

 

_Mom always said to keep your heart guarded - I can’t even do that right._

 

***

 

_He had been trying to keep his recent discovery to himself, not wanting to worry anyone. He went about his day like his world wasn’t falling apart around him. He still went to all his classes, followed Celestino very strict diet and workout plans, and spent his evenings with Phichit, watching movies into the early hours of the night._

 

_He managed to keep himself together for almost two weeks after the first petal appeared before everything fell apart._

 

_He tumbled to the ice after one too many falls during practice, and everything he had been trying to keep to himself fall apart._

 

_The grief of losing not only his first Grand Prix Finals but also his dear, sweet poodle. The disappointment at not evening been recognised by the man he idolised. The overwhelming despair of the disease that would take his life._

 

_A panic attack born from his anxiety, mixed with his slowly depleting lung capacity, lead him to unconsciousness._

 

_And unconsciousness lead him to a bleak hospital room, where everything he had suspected was confirmed for him._

 

_He had hanahaki._

 

The first thought that comes into his mind when Phichit walks into the hospital room is, “Oh shit.”

 

Phichit looks like he’s lost a lot of sleep, with red-rimmed eyes and tousled hair that Yuuri knows didn’t come from his hamsters tousling it up. No, he knows it’s from worrying fingers raking through his hair, pulling at the black tresses while he tosses and turns in his bed. He’s lived out five years of his life in Detroit next to that boy and he knows, he knows with all hundred and one percent the way Phichit beats himself up internally when one of his friends is in trouble.

 

And he also knows, guiltily, that the friend in trouble, this time, is him.

 

Phichit’s now standing right next to him, facing him, his face carefully blank and devoid of emotion.

 

It scares Yuuri to know that his friend has a mask this developed.

 

He doesn’t know whether to feel relieved or worried when it starts cracking.

 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Phichit’s voice comes out as a choked sob, eyes hidden below his messy fringe.

 

Yuuri had always been nagging him to cut it.

 

Phichit wipes angrily at his face, and then looks up - a sudden movement that startles Yuuri - so Yuuri can see his face, darkened and hardened by three days’ worth of anger bottled up in him.

 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Phichit repeats again, only a bit louder.

 

Yuuri feels a twinge of guilt for doing this to Phichit, because he’s just fallen down into a hole, and he’s dragged down his best friend with him.

 

He wants to say something, but the roses make an appearance again, flying out of his mouth in clouds of blue petals and spurts of blood. Phichit flies into action immediately, fluttering around the table, pouring a cup of water, holding a tissue to Yuuri’s mouth to catch the spurts of blood while quietly patting him on the back.

 

All too slowly, it ceases, and Yuuri has no choice but to collapse onto the bed, chest heaving in and out in exhaustion. The attacks are becoming more pronounced, growing stronger and lasting longer.

 

As if he’d read his mind, Phichit whispers, “The doctor says your disease is spreading unusually fast.”

 

It isn’t a question.

 

Yuuri nods. “Yes, it is. The doctor told me.”

 

He doesn’t tell Phichit that according to the doctor, his death is steadily approaching.

 

***

 

His world seems like it’s ending.

 

It seems like it’s ending, crashing, with the discovery of his rapidly-speeding up condition, until he performs what he thought would be his last dance on the ice -  an ode to his unreciprocated love. The resulting ripples spread across the world like a tsunami after an earthquake, somehow washing Viktor Nikiforov ashore at his doorstep, miles away from his comfy home in Russia.

 

 _“Starting from today, I’ll be your coach!”_ Viktor tells him, winking at him confidently, stretching out a lean, tanned arm out towards him from where he stands, buck naked in the onsen, and  _god,_ how Yuuri’s heart stops in that moment.

 

He thinks nothing of Viktor’s arrival until his mother mentions it in an offhand comment,  _wouldn’t it be beautiful if he loves Yuuri back too? Maybe that’s why he came-_ and for one moment, Yuuri’s world freezes.

 

 _Maybe,_ he can hear Minako agreeing from where he’s standing outside their room.  _Yuuri’s managed to summon Viktor Nikiforov all the way from Russia. Perhaps that’s the reason why?_

 

And for one, tiny moment - Yuuri’s world bursts into color, his heart singing, and for the first time in what seems like forever, a tiny spark of hope lights itself in his heart.

 

Then the blossoms come, racking his body in painful coughs and spasms, tearing up his throat and bursting through his mouth, like the world is laughing at him.  _Fool_ , they seem to cry, peeking up at him slyly through their folded, pristine petals.  _Fool. Do you actually think he will ever love you back? If you do, then you hope for nothing. We are here, and we have no plans to leave. You will die on his hands with us blooming out of your body, and your love will never be returned._

 

_Never._

 

***

 

Yuuri lies on the floor, surrounded by his flowers, and wonders why it has to hurt so badly. Even breathing is painful for him now, with his throat being ripped open more often than not, and most days he has to wash it down with ice-cold water and some cough drops.

  
"This room smells like blood," Mari's voice rings out,  causing Yuuri to pause and lift his head up slightly to look at his older sister. "Blood and flowers."

  
Yuuri can do nothing but give a soft hum in response as he slowly drops his head back onto the ground, careful not to aggravate his throat, as Mari wanders into the room and makes herself comfortable on his bed. There’s no need to hide his flowers from her, because she had figured it out almost the moment he had arrived home. Yuuri can vividly remember her cornering him as soon as she figured it out, and her listening to him sob over his fate and his unrequited love.   


It’s always been a family rule, had been from the moment they were born, and their parents told them about the existence of hanahaki. Never fall in love clumsily, never let hanahaki plant itself inside you. As easy to remember as one plus one.

 

Yuuri had never questioned this rule. His parents had installed it in both him and Mari, and Minako had always reminded him to keep his heart guarded, especially when travelling. It had never actually occurred to him why.

 

“We don’t believe in losing love,” Mari had mumbled while hugging him tightly as he sobbed, choking on his words, into her shoulder that night when she had confronted him. “They tell us not to fall in love clumsily because they believe one only falls in love once.”

 

His family, his friends, his country - there’s a reason why there are exactly zero hospitals offering the removal surgery in Japan. It’s because they do not believe in it.

  
“I’ll light some candles,” Yuuri mumbles weakly, his voice croaky from the fit that had left him spread out in the floor.

 

“You gonna tell him?”

 

Yuuri turns his head to stare at his sister, watching her closely as her eyes skim across the blank walls of his room.

 

“What is there to tell?” Yuuri raises an eyebrow.

 

“That he is killing you. That you are skating with a slowly diminishing lung capacity. That you are utterly in love with him,” Mari listed, voice blank from any real emotions.

 

It surprises Yuuri just a little. Mari had always been emotional if an urgent matter had to do with him, a far cry from how cold her expression is now.

 

He stares at his sister for a long moment before forcing himself to smile at her, something that takes a little effort with how exhausted he felt.

 

“Nothing to tell him,” he mumbles.

 

Mari sits there for a moment before raising to her feet and leaving just as suddenly as she appeared.

Yuuri knew he was going to die, he had accepted it. He just hoped his family would accept it soon too.

He really hoped for their sake.

 

***

 

There are hints of it everywhere.

 

On the bathroom, in scattered blue petals; in vases all around Yu-topia, with faint sightings of wilted blue roses; in Yuuri’s room, where faint blood-scent still lingers while the air stinks of freshly-sprayed freshener.

 

The signs are everywhere, have been there since Yuuri arrived back home, barely hidden from Viktor, placed just so that if Viktor even has an  _inkling_ of what Yuuri has, he’ll know. He’ll know everything.  

 

Yet, Viktor can’t see them.

 

 _Can’t, or won’t?_  Yuuri wonders, as he lies supine on the bathroom floor in the middle of the night, lungs weighed down and heavy from coughing.

 

***

 

Yuuri’s choking.

 

He’s choking on the flowers that burst out of his throat, entwining themselves in his airways, his lungs, and he can’t make them stop, he can’t breathe, he can’t think, it’s all too suffocating, it’s torture. He wants it to stop, stop right now, now,  _now-_

 

And it’s over.

 

Shakily, he coughs out the last of the blue petals stained red from the blood in his throat, rises from where he’s hunched on the bathroom floor, and reaches out for a spare towel to wipe off the last droplets of blood from the corners of his mouth. He looks in the mirror, can see his face haggard and pale, looking ten years older,  _all because of the disease that blossomed because of his over-attachment to someone who wasn’t even his, who belonged to the world and who reveled in his stage at the top, not bothering to glance down._

 

Blue roses. The unattainable. The impossible.

 

Viktor, faraway, glorious, unreachable.

 

He’d thought that maybe he’d had a chance, maybe, just maybe, when Viktor showed up at the onsen, offering to be his coach, promising to reach the Grand Prix Finals with him…

 

 _No, that was completely wrong,_ his traitorous mind whispers.  _Viktor never loved you. You’re a fool, to think that. Why would he want a fatso like you? He can pick anyone. He can pick someone better, stronger, faster, more graceful._

 

_Someone who isn’t you._

 

“No...stop…” Yuuri chokes out, voice muffled by the sobs rising and making their way to the top of his throat.

 

 _You were a fool if you thought someone like you could stand a chance,_ the voice continued softly.  _Did you really think you did? You never did, didn’t you? You’ve been lying to yourself all along. Listen to them. See how they actually think of you._

 

“Stop... “

 

 _We don’t need two Yuris in the same bracket. Just retire already, moron._ Yuri’s voice, laced with every single bit of his boiling hatred towards Yuuri.

 

 _Fatso, fatso!_ The bullies from school cheer in the back of his mind, voices filled with derision and the strength of hate and jubilation at pushing him back down.  _Look at you, loser. You’re so fat, how can you be a proper figure skater?_

 

 _You’d better lose some more weight, little piggy, before you try to skate._ Viktor’s voice, somehow warped from its usual cheer and optimism into something sharp and deadly that pierced through what was left of Yuuri’s calm.  _Or else, I can never coach you. Never._

 

“Stop!” Yuuri shrieks, and now he’s so grateful that he asked Viktor to go on ahead and wait at Ice Castle for him, because he bursts into tears right there and then on the floor and he can’t help it, it’s so embarrassing, and he knows that the only person to blame for this is him. His family has learned to give him space during one of his nervous breakdowns or coughing fits, so he knows he can count on them to avoid this bathroom for the next half hour or so, while he collects his thoughts and takes a few deep breaths to steady himself, before he has to slip on his mask again and join Viktor for training.

 

He’ll have to go through his normal breathing exercise now. Deep breaths. One. Two. Start stating things about yourself.

 

“My name is Katsuki Yuuri, and I’m a dime-a-dozen figure skater, being coached by Viktor Nikiforov, who I’m also in love with,” he starts, forcing himself to breathe in and out slowly as his muddled mind begins to make sense of his words.

 

It feels so natural, to say he’s in love with Viktor.

 

“I’m in love with Viktor Nikiforov,” he says again, louder this time, and he knows that those words fit perfectly in his mouth.

 

And with an aching certainty, he knows he wants to say it again and again.

 

***

 

When Viktor Nikiforov arrives, announcing to be his new coach, Yuuri isn’t really sure what to expect.

 

He definitely does not expect for Yuri Plisetsky to arrive, demanding that Viktor return back to Russia to keep a promise that the skating legend has long since forgotten.

 

It would have been easier if Viktor had followed along with the younger Russian’s demands.

 

He could have spent his final days in peace, coughing up flowers and thanking the gods that Viktor Nikiforov at least knew his name.

 

But Viktor Nikiforov never seems to do what people expect. He doesn’t accept Yuri Plisetsky’s demand. He doesn’t go back to Russia.

 

He sets up a competition between Yuri and himself instead, declaring that he will create programs for them both, provided they battle for the right to be his protege.

 

“What the hell?”

 

Yuuri spins around at the sudden voice he hears behind him, coming face to face with Yuri Plisetsky. Blue petals are everywhere, he knows, and he’ll have to come up with an excuse that will explain why the petals are everywhere and why he’s covering his mouth as blood slowly trickles through the gaps between his fingers.

 

He’ll have to hope that Yuri doesn’t know what’s hanahaki.

 

“What the hell?” Yuri shouts, voice cracking in what he could only describe as panic, causing Yuuri to quickly grab his sweat rag to try and wipe the blood from his face and hands.

 

“I can explain!” Yuuri mumbles in a croaky voice before another cough tickles his throat. The cough isn’t the worst, it doesn’t make him collapse, doesn’t make him choke and gag as he heaves up flower after flower. All it is is a simple cough, a little wet with blood.

 

“You’re skating with hanahaki!” Yuri hisses as the cough settles down, Yuuri’s gasp for air, trying to fill his lungs with as much air as they can around the growing flowers. “Are you stupid?! Hanahaki restricts your lung capacity!”

 

“How do you know so much about hanahaki?” He questions while lowering the rag from his mouth. He’s been dealing with the disease for months now, so the iron taste of the blood never truly goes away. The blonde freezes, a look of outrage on his face.

 

“Get the bloody surgery. If you get it now you should be recovered enough to compete at the Grand Prix.” Yuri huffs, crossing his arms.

 

“It’s not that simple…” Yuuri mumbles, picking up each blue rose petal up as carefully as he can with trembling hands.

 

If he had wanted the surgery, he would have accepted the offer the doctors had offered him. But he couldn’t.

 

He knew that skating was becoming harder with each passing day, but couldn’t bring himself to stop. It didn’t matter how short of breath he became, how severe the headspins got, or how there was always a lingering taste of blood at the back of his mouth, he needed to fight it.

 

 _Just a little bit longer,_ He has to remind himself.  _Just let me get the the Grand Prix Finals. Just let me skate like him, at his level, at my best. Just let me prove I am worthy of him before taking me._

 

He yelps as Yuri grabs his wrist with a sudden move that leaves him flinching sharply from the shock, as Yuri pries open his hands and exposes the petals.

 

“Roses?” Yuri growls, causing him to yank his hand out of the blond’s and hide his flowers away.

 

“Shouldn’t you be practicing?” He asks while wrapping the flowers up in his bloody sweat rag and shoving the rag into his bag. He’ll have to deal with it later, once he gets out of Yuri’s sight. Sitting down, he begins to work on removing his skates.

 

“Blue roses. Why blue roses…” The teen’s sentence trails off, and Yuuri can hear the moment when he realises it, in the way Yuri’s breath hitches in shock. Slowly tilting his head up, he locks his gaze with the Russian tene, who stares at him with wide eyes. “No, no, no. ARE YOU KIDDING ME!?” He flinches at the teen’s sudden roar of rage. “You’re  in love with that, with that-” Yuri grunts as he slams his fist into the nearest wall with another yell. Yuuri shoots to his feet and hurries over to the teen, only to pause when the teen backs away from him like a cornered animal, eyes wild and angry as he cradles the hand he had just thrust into the solid wall. “He can’t love you. Save yourself. Get the bloody surgery.”

 

Yuuri stands frozen as Yuri flees the room, the angry boy’s final words echoing in his ear.

 

_He can’t love you. Save yourself. Get the bloody surgery._

 

What if he doesn’t want to be saved?

 

***

 

“You fucking idiot,” Yuri hisses at Viktor later, in the silence of Ice Castle.

 

“What did I do now, Yuri?” Viktor fake-pouts, hand grasping at his chest dramatically.

 

_Fucking oblivious._

 

_How can you not see it?_

 

_He’s head over heels for you._

 

_Treat him better, he deserves someone better, he deserves someone better than you. Fuck you, he doesn’t deserve this! He deserves better than a stupid deluded old fool-_

 

_If I tell Viktor that Yuuri has hanahaki… will he be able to love him?_

 

_It isn’t your secret to tell, Yuri Plisetsky. All you can do now is wait out the storm. This is their battle._

 

Oh, he can remember - he can remember the past, where he coughed up small yellow dandelions in bunches at a time, ever-searching for his mother, who had left for no reason, had  _abandoned_ him.

 

He still remembered what the doctor had told him.

 

_They flourish while you decay._

 

“Just - fucking look after Katsudon, okay?!” Yuri yells at Viktor, then turns around and stomps, ice skates on, to the side of the rink.

 

***

 

The signs are increasing.

 

Nights of coughing next to Viktor in the bed, nights of retching in the bathroom while the flowers curl and tighten their grip on his lungs, nights of pining after the man who is only a few centimeters away, so close he can touch.

 

He still doesn’t dare to.

 

***

 

_‘They flourish while you decay.’_

 

No truer words could be spoke regarding hanahaki.

 

He can feel them growing every day. Growing bigger, embedding themselves deeper and deeper in the walls of his lungs.

 

But he has no time to dwell on the inevitable. He has more important things to focus on.

 

Training and competitions, and the most important thing of all, spending what little time he has left with the man that is slowly killing him.

 

Throwing himself into his training, he refuses to let the ever growing roses that sprout from his mouth prevent him from enjoying what little time he had left. Never.

 

He’s managed  to compete in not one, but two major competitions. Managed to beat his personal best, and earn a medal and qualify for the Grand Prix Finals.

 

All the while, beautiful, blood-dripped flowers occasionally fall from his lips. Flowers that he has to keep hidden from the man who’s causing them.

 

They’re flourishing, growing more and more beautiful, while he starts to decay. Breathing grows harder and harder, skating grows tougher and tougher, and life grows more arduous and backbreaking.

 

But he still has one more competition. And before that, he can’t give up.

 

He still has one more chance to win Viktor Nikiforov’s heart. Only one more. And he’s going to grab onto that chance, and never ever let go.

 

***

 

_No, no, no, no, no._

 

_No, no, no, this can’t be happening, no, no, no, no._

 

It couldn’t be happening.

 

Not when they were so close.

 

Not when  _he_ was so close.

 

It’s the morning of the Grand Prix Short Programs, and all Yuuri can think is  _no, no, no, no._

 

He had an attack in the night, having to sneak into the bathroom with difficulty to avoid waking up Viktor, sleeping soundlessly and peacefully next to him, and spent the next hour and a half coughing up blossom after blossom.

 

The buds were growing fuller and fuller now, more and more beautiful and pristine and delicate, with perfect petals unfolded at exactly the right angle, and Yuuri knew this meant he was nearing his end.

 

 _It’s only for today and tomorrow,_ he promises himself.  _Two days… god, please._

 

_Grant me these two days…_

 

_These two days…_

 

_So I can skate._

 

_So I can win._

 

_So I can finally make Viktor proud._

 

_And after that… I promise i’ll let go._

 

_Please…_

 

***

 

Each step of the short program sends a jolt of pain through his being, makes him gasp for air, makes him wish he were dead, because the pain is so unbearable, like he’s being stabbed with ten red-hot pokers at once, and  _oh gods,_ it hurts. It hurts so much.

 

_In. Out. In. Out. Don’t panic. This won’t last._

 

He touches down on the Salchow.

 

_In. Out. In. Out._

 

Quad-triple combo that he lands seamlessly except for a small wobble in his free leg, but he’s sure the judges won’t notice.

 

_In. Out._

 

His finishing pose, in which he’s supposed to wrap his arms around himself, like he needs no one, like the unattainable woman he’s supposed to be. But instead, he chooses to go for a different angle.

 

He imagines he’s holding  _Viktor_ this time and Viktor reciprocates the hug and embraces him, and he doesn’t want to let go.

 

_Stay close to me._

 

For a frozen moment in time, he almost believes it.

 

  1. _OUT._



 

And then the moment breaks, and Yuuri collapses onto the ice, chest heaving. He can feel his eyes cross, his vision blur, as he tries to make sense of what’s happening and the only thought he has is  _careful, another one’s coming_ before the wave hits.

 

Good thing he remembers to cover his mouth this time.

 

Luckily, it’s only a small cough, but the blossom that he coughs out this time has soft petals and perfect dimensions, and he  _knows,_ without looking at it, that it’s the most beautiful one yet.

 

_They flourish while you decay._

 

Without looking at it, he crushes it in his palm, and watches, face devoid of emotion, as the crushed petals drift down lazily to land on the ice.

 

***

 

The day of the free skate dawns bright and new, and Yuuri instinctively knows, that today will be the last day of his life.

 

He’s already had two attacks in the night, small ones, in which he’d coughed up exactly three perfect blossoms - not a good sign. It meant that the hanahaki blossoms were being stockpiled up in his lungs for later - which, he had no doubt, was when he would die.

 

“Yuuri,” Victor calls out, his voice filled with worry.

 

Dazedly, Yuuri thinks,  _he could listen to him everyday and never grow tired of it._

 

“You look a bit pale.” Viktor’s now gazing at him, eyes full of gentle concern.

 

“I’m fine,” Yuuri waves off Victor’s concern while nervously taking a deep breath, or as big of a breath as he can with flowers twining around his windpipe. “I’ll be okay.”

 

The deep intake of breath sounds less deep and more like a small hiccup, a hiccup that leaves him lightheaded and dizzy.

 

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Victor questions, resting a light hand on his shoulder that stays there and balances delicately like a feather.

 

“Just nervous,” Yuuri mumbles. “Give me a moment. I’ll be okay.”

 

***

 

He’s by the rinkside, ready to skate his free skate that could quite possibly be the final skate of his life.

 

Despite knowing how long he has left, Yuuri feels calm. It’s like he’s underwater, drifting, everything muted and blurry, faint light shimmering through the water to brush gently across his face and his body. It feels detached in a way, like he’s separate from the world he’s actually in, and his body’s moving like a machine

 

Victor is standing right beside him, an ever-present rock, weighing him down and keeping him grounded.

 

 _If only he knows_ , a little voice mocks, snickers, inside him,  _if only he knows he’s coaching a dead man._

 

“Deep breaths, Yuuri, it’s almost time,” Victor’s voice sounds beside him,

 

He glances towards his coach, the man he loves, the man that will be his death, and smiles softly.

 

_God, I love him so much._

 

Shrugging off his jacket, he hands it to Victor before standing still so Victor can make sure his outfit was in perfect order. He has to make everything count.

 

Today will be the culmination of his efforts, the rising peak of his disease, and the day that he dies, with Viktor’s name on his lips.

 

_It’s time._

 

He steps onto the ice.

 

***

 

It was beautiful.

 

It was like time stopped.

 

The crowd’s roaring as Yuuri stands in the centre of the ice, staring at him while breathing heavily, as incredible and graceful and breathtaking as ever, his hands hanging limply at his side.

 

_His side…?_

 

Something was wrong.

 

Viktor’s been by Yuuri’s side for a year, and he’s grown used to Yuuri waving at the crowds immediately after a performance, a habit he himself has drilled into Yuuri, to always be nice to his fans, to put on a show for them.

 

So why…?

 

Something feels terribly off.

 

Viktor knows Yuuri like the inside of himself, like he knows each scar on the ice rink in Hasetsu, every slice carved in by his and Yuuri’s blades, like he knows the feel and the exhilaration and the rush of wind as he lands a quad. And he knows that now, something, something,  _something,_ is terribly off with Yuuri.

 

But he can’t tell what, and it’s frustrating him, the anxiousness gnawing away at the strings of his calm, the individual strands snapping one by one.

 

Something… just feels wrong.

 

 _He’s just feeling tired, probably,_ Viktor reassures himself. He doesn’t have any time to worry about it anymore, because Yuuri’s skating towards the rinkside, skating towards him, and he looks like he’s about to collapse.

 

Slowly slotting in the mask he uses for the public, he raises his arms wide, turns on his heart-shaped smile, and thinks,  _Oh, Yuuri, I’m so proud of you-_

 

-only for Yuuri to silently sway on his feet, wrap his arms around Viktor, and collapse into him, knocking him down.

 

And then his vision’s tunnelling, Viktor’s shaking Yuuri, frantically asking him if he’s okay, hugs him and listens to the rise and fall of his chest that is worryingly low, and yells at the bystanders and the media, “Get the medics!” because something’s wrong, something’s wrong with Yuuri, and he needs medical attention now.  

 

Feeling Yuuri’s breath suddenly shudder into his lungs with a huge rasp, Viktor has to slam his eyes closed because Yuuri’s coughing, the spasms rocking his body, and he can hear something wet hit the floor behind him and splatter over his coat.

 

Viktor doesn’t need to look at it to know it’s blood.

 

“Yuuri…” he whispers, trembling, because  _how could he not know Yuuri was sick before a competition with an illness this serious, Yuuri never hid things from him, he never had, never never never-_ “what did you contract? Why are you coughing out blood?  _Lyubov moya,_ oh gods… ”

 

Yuuri’s breath is raspy, the movements of his chest against Viktor’s coming less often and less intense, and suddenly he heaves up something from his lungs that is _definitely not blood,_ because it hits the floor with a soft thump, and Viktor can smell it, a scent that’s stayed with him at every skating competition and now painfully reminds him of the gnawing, aching, emptiness that was his skating glory.

 

Turning to look at it just confirms his suspicions, and the shock of it slams into him like a cannonball, leaves him struggling to breathe around the sobs rising from his throat, because  _oh, it’s always that one thing, that one shade of blue, that one type of flower,_ that always seems to stare mockingly at him, taunting him, because it’s the epitome of what he is, and now it’s the flower destroying the love of his life from the inside out while he can do nothing but watch.

 

“Yuuri… you have hanahaki,” he whispers. “Gods,  _why?_ Yuuri,  _zolotsye moyo,_ why didn’t you tell me…?”

 

He can feel the tears pooling in his eyes, and he grits his teeth, willing the tears back, telling himself the same thing over and over again:  _Don’t cry. Be strong._

 

_For Yuuri’s sake._

 

He cries anyways.

 

“Yuuri…Yuuri,  _solnyshko…”_

 

***

 

Everything’s fading in and out.

 

Blink. One second it’s cold, the next everything’s spinning. In the third suddenly everything’s warm, and it takes a minute for him to realise that he’s in familiar hands. He’s in  _Viktor’s_ hands, and nothing can go wrong.

 

Everything’s blurry - he doesn’t have his glasses, and the hanahaki flowers are twining their way up his throat, digging their roots into his lungs. All he can feel is Viktor’s arms around him, tangled in the fabric of his costume, Viktor gripping it like it’s his lifeline.

 

His hearing’s fading in and out too. It’s mostly quiet, is it? All he can hear is his name, entwined with various Russian words - are they endearments? - falling and spilling out from Viktor’s mouth, accompanied by a strange noise.

 

Something warm’s falling.

 

It takes a while for Yuuri to figure out that it’s Viktor’s tears.

 

It feels so surreal, the both of them kneeling on the floor, Yuuri being supported by Viktor while he sobs into Yuuri’s costume. The entire arena’s silent and apparently stunned, because no one had ever competed with hanahaki before.

 

Yuuri couldn’t blame them, actually. It was a suicidal choice, but the only way for him to be as near to Viktor as possible was for him to skate during the last year of his life.

 

Even if it killed him.

 

_Well, I’ve surprised them_ _alright._

 

“Yuuri…”

 

“Vik...tor?” he manages to rasp, breath nothing but a whisper.

 

“Vitya,” Viktor corrects. Yuuri looks up at him, and -  _oh,_ he’s smiling, smiling in spite of everything he’s done to make him cry, smiling through his tears. He’s trying to be happy for Yuuri’s sake, and Yuuri’s heart aches, because there’s no need to pretend, not when he’s at death’s door.

 

Vitya… the Russian diminutive for Viktor. Only used by family, or close friends…  _or lovers._

 

“Vit-” Yuuri coughs, but suddenly the squeezing feeling’s back, and… oh god, he can feel the flowers bursting out of his throat. The thorns are shredding his throat to pieces, and the flowers are bursting out from his mouth, he can feel the blood seeping out from in between his lips, and it hurts so badly he can see the world going black, catching a glimpse of Viktor’s shocked eyes, filling with tears again, before he closes them.

 

He’s so tired.

 

_Vitya, Vitya, Vitya… I’m so sorry._

 

_Vitya…_

 

_Vit..._

 

***

 

Viktor isn’t prepared.

 

He isn’t prepared for Yuuri to breathe his name. He wants him to say it again and again even before he finishes, and halfway through it, Yuuri’s lips curve in the shape needed for the second half of his name, and air whistles through his lips.

 

No sound leaves them.

 

Viktor soon realises why, as Yuuri’s back arches in pain, his eyes slamming closed, and his hands grasp fistfuls of the fabric of Viktor’s trench coat as blood spurts from his lips, and roses emerge. Blue and pure, like how the media viewed Viktor as, bursting from his mouth, the tips of them smudged and soaked with blood.

 

 _Yuuri’s_ blood.

 

_No._

 

Suddenly, what’s left of Yuuri’s breath whooshes out of his lungs, and he sags back into Viktor’s embrace with a soft sigh. Viktor’s desperately clenching Yuuri now, hoping that he’ll wake up, without the flowers, stand up as though nothing happened, as if this was all an illusion conceived by the depths of his mind.

 

Yuuri’s chest doesn’t move again, and somehow, the lack of movement feels even more empty, more draining, than anything else.  

 

Viktor can practically feel the  _life_ bleeding out of Yuuri, leaving his body behind.

 

_He’s… he’s…_

 

_No. No. It can’t be. No, no…_

 

His surroundings have blurred by now, distorted through his tears.

 

Maybe that’s why he doesn’t realise Yuri’s there until he’s literally standing right over him, looming over him like a shadow of fiery destruction, all wrath and purpose and anger.

 

“I  _told_ you,” Yuri hisses, “to  _look after him.”_

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted to give another shout out to [silencedmockingjay](https://silencedfalcon.tumblr.com) who was the main writer of this fic!
> 
> Yes, I did help write it and come up with the idea, but [silencedmockingjay](http://archiveofourown.org/users/silencedmockingjay/pseuds/silencedmockingjay) did all of the hard work! Please check out her tumblr or AO3 if you ever get the chance, you won't regret it!
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you Babystar for letting me write this with you! It was a pleasure and I would happily do it again anytime <3
> 
> ~Kasumi
> 
> Hey there, this is Noc, aka silencedmockingjay!!! If you've made it this far, then well I'd just like to thank all of you for riding this angsty story with me, and please PLEASE comment and kudo!!!! Both will make my day, as well as Kasumi's!!! Also, please check out her ao3- she's an IMMENSELY TALENTED writer, and I really feel lucky to have been given the chance to work on this with her :D once again, I hope you've enjoyed the story, and sayonara for now! 
> 
> [Here is the amazing art for this fic for the Victuri Bang!](http://smolrey.tumblr.com/post/166981342895/hello-so-i-thought-id-join-the-victuri-big) It was a honor to work with smolrey, aka our VBB artist :) Please check out her artwork, it's absolutely gorgeous! 
> 
> ~Noc


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